Welcome to Elgin, Texas. (Where?) Exactly.

March 9, 2010

My parents moved to Elgin, Texas, four years ago. Why? Well, they are boring people. So with a job opportunity and ridiculous property taxes in Austin, they had no problem paying 1/6th the property taxes (which are immense, no sales tax in Texas) in a boring town with six stoplights. Why so many stoplights? Because if they weren’t there, you’d never be able to leave. All the people flying past at 70 miles an hour would prevent you from turning left.

Anyhow, since I’m spending time at the ‘rents house, I am obviously bored out of my freaking mind. Here’s what I’ve come up with to entertain myself.

  1. Listen to the coyotes howling at night.
  2. Ask myself “Where am I?” after hearing locals reference things like “well, at the hog convention” and realize they aren’t talking about motorcycles.
  3. Download apps for my Blackberry.
  4. Use one app to search Twitter for “Everyone Near You.” Count four users. And sigh.
  5. Realize I have nothing in common with three of four twitter users near me.
  6. Translate one of the four tweets from Spanish to English, and realize I have nothing in common with the fourth, either.
  7. Listen for banjo music off in the distance.
  8. Google Maps my old apartment complex/Elmwood Plaza and realize that at the same scale both are about the same size… only my old place had seven times as many bars.
  9. Scan the horizon for lights.
  10. Realize that all the UFO shows I’ve ever seen feature at least one sighting from a town like this.
  11. Gaze into the sky longing for a UFO to abduct me.

Missed Connections

February 23, 2010

The other night, I was at this bar with a couple friends of mine. And one of them had a couple friends with her. Now, one trait I’ve noticed about women here in the South (and Midwest for that matter), is that when a girl is being harassed by some guy, they need to be rescued. Very few have the confidence to say “get the hell away from me” to some creep.

So while I’m talking to one friend of a friend, who’s a cute girl, funny and can carry on a conversation. I think I will attempt to get to know her better.

But then some d-bag comes up and interrupts our table, trying to make friends. The girls roll their eyes, and the guy scampers off, but comes back in about five minutes to harass everyone again. I am about to pull the guy aside at tell him to back off, but before I can, my new friend tells the guy to get lost.

Kev-Fu like.

Of course, the guy comes back, but this time, I tell the guy “hey, I’m working here, how about a little professional courtesy? Give me some time,” and he apologizes to me and stays away.

Back to the cute blonde, we’re talking and having a good time. Turns out we’re both from New York (which explains her eagerness to tell jerks to get lost).

Jay-Z’s Empire State of Mind comes on and she says “I was at the World Series when they sang this live.”  I stare at her as the magnitude of the statement sets in. Then she adds “You know, the World Series?” because I’m staring blankly at her like I don’t know what the World Series is. She’s probably thinking I’m some guy who doesn’t like sports. I reply with “sorry, the World Series was…”

And she says “oh, it was hard for me, because my family is from Philadelphia and are all Phillies fans.  I’m the only one who broke rank and is a Yankee fan.”

I don’t think I reacted well. My friend asked me later what we were talking about. She said my face fell like someone told me my favorite puppy just died.  Too bad because the girl had a lot of potential.

I am Just a Hot Mess

July 14, 2009

After last week’s softball game, and the July 4th kickball game, I was ridiculously sore. Because I am old.

At today’s game, I realized that my lack of arm strength from last week has somehow turned into me wondering where my right rotator cuff has gone. Basically, I have no arm left. I’m like Chet “Rocket” Stedman at the end of Rookie of the Year.

It left me wondering if I had injured it the last time I played softball (in Dayton in 2006) and just didn’t remember it (we tended to drink heavily after games. And non-gamedays). Or if it was something else (hockey-related perhaps?) or maybe stems from my previous back problem from last winter.

Needless to say, I can barely lift my right arm.

After a post-game shower, which included cleaning off the rug burn on my right leg from sliding on astroturf, I noticed I have cuts on three fingers on my right hand. Neither of which was all that painful, so I assumed my arm/shoulder and general stiffness was all the injury I had on the day.

Then I made dinner (bacon, egg, cheese on an everything bagel with tobasco). I pulled our grease cup from the freezer and set it in the sink.

I forgot that bacon grease is like five times hotter than grease from browning ground beef. The grease hit the frozen beef grease, crackled and hissed. I picked up the cup to put it back in the freezer…

… and the hot grease melted the side of the plastic cup, poured out the side down the fingers of my left hand. So now all my finger tips are scalded.

How could bacon do this to me? It knows how much I love it!

All the veggies from my freezer are now ruined, as I thawed all of them on my throbbing hot fingers.

But I’m a hockey player. So I manned up, and pecked away at this update fot you, my faithful readers. On the plus side, I don’t feel any of the normal leg stiffness from softball. At least til I try and get out of bed tomorrow.

You Are Now Free To Hang Yourself in an Airplane Bathroom

February 26, 2009

DALLAS, Texas – Amid a large post-Mardi Gras throng of travelers fleeing the Crescent City, I found myself late for my flight and used that as an excuse to not submit my Southwest frequent flyer number.

I say excuse because if you earn a free flight on Southwest, is that supposed to be some kind of reward?

For example, let’s say I redeemed my credits for a free flight to Dallas to watch my favorite women’s basetball team. It doesn’t matter if I’m in Group A, B or C, because no matter where I sit, some rotund freak is going to come along and place himself right next to me in the middle seat.

There I am, got my aisle seat all picked out. I’m leaning towards the middle, and my right arm sticking out on the aisle, so it looks like two people are there, in an effort to protect a buffer seat between me and some seemingly normal random dude.

And the last guy on the plane is some hulking mass of humanity, who’s kinda sweaty, an majorly bulbous. And he sits down right in that empty seat.

My new stinky pal has his love-garage doors invading my personal space to the point where I have to lean over to not drown in his meaty flank. To his credit, he was gentlemanly enough to hold onto his shoulders so the full range of his girth did not suffocate me.

My back couldn’t even find the middle of the seat, it was on the edge of the seat, which is angled inward. The next 90 minutes turned the muscles in my back into a twisting coil akin to a can of worms of spasms I’ll be feeling tomorrow.

Satan runs this airline
Satan runs this airline

I lean forward, fire up the laptop and try to work. No room. I can’t type, I can’t move the cursor. I can’t comfortably sit. I hang over the armrest and spill out into the aisle and get hammered by a drink cart and sympathetic but powerless stewardess. I can’t lean my seat back — did I mention I’m in the very last row? And there’s a line forming for the bathroom, so I can’t even escape.

Finally, I realize I can lift my armrest using MacGyver-like tactics on its hinge, only to be told we’re beginning descent and I have to put the armrest down.

A free flight on Southwest (No, I didn’t redeem points for this) is no reward. It’s no-class ticket to hell. Sure, I’m getting somewhere for free, but sitting next to a rotund stranger who could suffocate me makes me think I’m better off hitchhiking if I need to go somewhere cheaply. (Sure, I might get raped or killed, but hey, at least there’s a sense of adventure!).

I do feel violated, though! This communist airline, where no person’s seat priority is beneficial, ensures the discomfort of all passengers, demeans us with a cattle-call lineup to board, and demoralizes us to flashbacks of the fifth-grade bus (assuming everyone in your fifth grade class were strangers with hyper-active pituitary glands). And that’s all before take off.

The experience reminds me of how I hate romantic comedies, where the cute quirky chick meets Jerry McGuire on a plane, or Tom Cruise sits next to Meg Ryan. Do I have a hot female stranger plop down next to me? No, I’ve had one flight ever sitting next to an attractive girl who I didn’t know before getting on the plane (she was happily married to the guy sitting on the other side of her).

The next time I fly Southwest, I better have a hot, thin, 25-29 year old, single redhead who’s attracted to witty, immature goofy-looking men, sit down next to me and say “Do you mind if I sit here?” while carrying a brown paper bag full of deli-meats and french bread. “Sorry if I take up room with all my stuff here, but I’m making sandwiches. Would you like one?” Is that too much to ask?

Probably. But after all the emotional and physical torture Southwest has inflicted upon me, they owe me an introduction to Miss Awesome and the future Mrs. Kev-Fu.

(Intro) Creed Dot Gov

October 28, 2008

Colleen, who is the primary writer for the widely popular blog which shares her name and recent addition to my office, had just heard one of my highly entertaining stories, and said “this is why you need to have a blog.”

What I think Colleen fails to realize is that, because she has known me for a mere three weeks, there is a limit to my entertainment value. She’s hearing all these stories, all of them entertaining, for the first time. Quite soon, she’ll have heard all the good ones and within three months will be pleading for me to stop talking.

So to humor her, we’re starting this. It’s not a blog. It’s a word document on my desktop. Just like Creed in The Office, only he thinks it’s really a blog on the internet. And he’s slightly more fictional than I am. He also has a team of writers working for him. Then again, I have Richie Weaver to provide material, and no FCC rules.

I’m tempted to just put up a massive list of all the great anecdotes I’ve accumulated – hell, I even have those mostly written – but I am saving those for a book, so that I can get rich.

Also, I’m quite certain Colleen has more of a fan base than I do. My friends wouldn’t check a blog I write. Most of them know if anything truly good happens in my life, they’ll get a drunk text message at like 2 a.m. (one of alcohol’s effects on me is the rapid erosion of my concept of time zones).

My blog would soon become quite boring. With nothing going on in my life except work, it would quickly deteriorate into my complaining about the bullpen usage of the Mets and how bad the Islanders are.

Plus, all hypotheses on my lack of charisma and lack of popularity would now be quantifiable in the form of a hit counter.

And of course, I’m just too cheap to pay for website hosting and too lazy to research the right content management system.

So for now, I’m writing for an audience of one: Colleen. After a week, if she can still stand reading, maybe we’ll add more.

EDIT – I may post this online sooner than expected because of how much I hate Microsoft Word. Freaking auto bullets.